


Marker and Crayon

by despitethewives (choirboyharem)



Series: if you're my fix, does that mean you'll fix me? [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, supermega
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Physical Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/despitethewives
Summary: It was weird that there was an inherent human compulsion to test how much pain you could put yourself in before pulling yourself back out—if you could pull yourself out at all. Seemed like a design flaw.
Relationships: Ryan Magee/Matt Watson
Series: if you're my fix, does that mean you'll fix me? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065128
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

The bruises that looked the worst never hurt as much. It was the pale ones, the under-the-surface ones that you had to look out for. Just touching them made you wince and grit your teeth. You knew it was gonna hurt, but you kept doing it anyway. You didn’t know why. Just curious to see how much it would hurt, maybe. 

It was weird that there was an inherent human compulsion to test how much pain you could put yourself in before pulling yourself back out—if you could pull yourself out at all. Seemed like a design flaw. 

If, by some miracle, that Matt made it to Heaven, he’d ask about that. Among a million other things. Obviously. However, he’d ask that one first, because he was desperate to understand why he was constantly chasing something that put him under so much physical stress it made him sick. Maybe it was the idea that, at some point, he was supposed to enjoy it. 

He still wasn’t enjoying it and he’d lost track of how long it had been since this started. He couldn’t remember that much, actually. If it pertained to work, yeah, sure, he was on top of that, but he wasn’t on top of much in his personal life. He’d entrusted so much to Ryan that he’d forgotten how to trust himself. 

He didn’t remember the safeword. Matt was ready to believe that they hadn’t ever had one to begin with. 

His cuticles looked fucking disgusting. Matt only realized how long he’d been picking at them when an open cut began to bleed without clotting, beading up again the second he wiped it away. He sucked on it idly, got bored with that, and wrapped it in the hem of his shirt instead. He pressed down until he could feel his finger go numb and hot in the fabric. 

He pressed down until it felt like a punishment. That was the place he’d been trying to reach. A place where he could slip into comfortable self-hatred, familiar and bittersweet. Matt closed his eyes and exhaled, dropping his head against the back of his chair. 

He was very, very angry with himself for essentially ruining his own happiness, angry to the point of redness and sickness and violence. None of this was Ryan’s fault. This was on Matt for not having a fucking spine and never telling Ryan that he had limits. It wasn’t on Ryan for not realizing that what he was doing was wrong—and it wasn’t even that it was wrong, because it really wasn’t. Matt just didn’t like it because he had a ridiculously thin skin. And it showed. 

Matt’s skin was like a canvas that someone had painted over and tried to put their fist through. It had gotten to the point that he couldn’t remember which bruises and cuts and scrapes and scars were new or which ones had been there since day one. They dappled the fish-pale skin stretched over stick-out bones, making him look like a doll that someone’s little brother had scribbled over with marker and crayon. In a hundred-and-eight-degree California summer, he’d worn long sleeves and jeans, covering up anything that he could possibly manage with little success. There was the whole face situation to think about. 

The last time Matt had had a black eye, they’d told everyone it was from a sketch that had gone horribly wrong and not from an argument that had resulted in Ryan being just a little too rough with him. It was only an accident, but it was harder to explain away that way. Matt’s life was full of excuses upon excuses for each individual altercation he found himself in because he couldn’t stomach the idea of confronting Ryan and telling him he couldn’t do this anymore. Because he  _ could.  _ He  _ knew _ he could. All he needed to do was learn  _ how _ to. 

They had definitely discussed rules at some point. Back when this had first started, Ryan had explained that something he’d done with most of his other sexual partners (still a weird, uncomfortable term to apply to the two of them, but whatever) was this whole sadomasochism thing. Matt had just wanted to try it to make him happy. There was a part of him that had leaped at the idea that he’d get hurt, really, really hurt, and it would make him feel good because he’d finally be getting something he’d deserved for so long. It would feel justified. And Ryan had also kind of implied that what they had might have gotten boring after a while, so, well. Maybe Matt had been a little scared. He might have rushed into certain things. 

There had definitely been a safeword. There had been. Matt had also sworn that Ryan had said they’d keep it in the bedroom, but maybe Matt’s head had been knocked around so bad that it was just another thing he was misremembering. 

Matt couldn’t tell if anything had, in fact, gone wrong in the months that they’d spent playing this game or if this was the natural progression of events. Because Ryan clearly wasn’t getting off to some of the other stuff. Stuff like the black eye or other choice incidents. 

(The cigarette burns. The kick in the chest and the foot on his shoulder. The choking. The callous insults. The spitting. The slapping. The hair-pulling.)

This was supposed to be a lifestyle thing, so that was another reason why Matt hadn’t bothered to question it. The other abuse (figure of speech!) was just part of it. All the nonsexual stuff. Every time a blood vessel popped, Matt had to remember where he was, who he was with, and what they had. Ryan wouldn’t ever actually hurt him. Not irreparably. For every sting across his cheek, there would be a kiss for it afterwards, soft and forgiving and unspeakably gentle. It made Matt remember how to be happy again. It made him remember that Ryan made him happy, always did, always would, regardless of what they were going through. 

Some nights were really bad, though. There was the night that they’d had a stupidly petty back-and-forth about Matt losing a chunk of video footage, escalating to the point where Ryan had called him a faggot, hurling it at him with the intent to hurt rather than it just being a stupid joke. Matt had shut down, angry and frustrated and small. 

“Jesus, Matt, how old are you? You gonna cry over that? Really?”

And Matt had kind of felt like it. He’d felt the burn in his throat, rough and thick and shameful. He’d looked away, shoulders hunched. 

“Don’t fucking ignore me.” Ryan had grabbed Matt’s face, forcing him to look up. Staring into Ryan’s eyes had only made it worse, and Matt had felt his eyes sting. 

“I’m sorry,” Matt had whispered, hollow, using that in place of  _ “Please don’t”.  _ Like always. 

“You’re pretty goddamn pathetic sometimes. I wouldn’t call you that shit if I didn’t think it was true. I’m just being honest.” 

“I-I know.”

“You’re a fucking faggot, Matt. Never seen anyone get off to being treated like such a piece of shit like you do. Why don’t you ever fight back? Tell me no? Anything?”

Matt had just swallowed and shrugged, feeling his tears fall. 

Ryan had grinned, cold and unfeeling. “Aw, are you scared of me?”

Matt hadn’t been able to say anything to him. Mainly because he didn’t want to say yes, because that would’ve been some kind of admission. And he couldn’t say no either, because that’d be a lie. 

“I dunno,” he’d forced out, low and broken, looking at the floor as he twisted his fingers together. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. No, don’t—” He’d cut himself off, flinging his hands up in front of his face and turning his head, squeezing his eyes shut when Ryan stepped closer to him. 

Ryan had just laughed, backing off. “You are. You’re fucking scared of me.” He’d shoved his heel into the side of Matt’s head as he walked away, leaving Matt unbalanced and nearly tripping over his own feet, his ear ringing. “You’re gonna have to tell Justin why we have to re-record an entire episode just because you’re so completely unprofessional.” 

Maybe he was. Maybe he still didn’t know what he was doing. In the now, Matt found himself pulling another strip of skin free from his finger, beginning to bleed again. He stuck the digit in his mouth and sucked on it as his free hand scratched at his arm, digging in a little too hard. He was fidgety. He’d forgotten to take his pills. 

He looked at his computer where an unfinished track lay dormant, underproduced and lacking drums, bass, and the samples he needed. He couldn’t remember what he was trying to do with it anymore. 

He saved it as a draft and closed the program. He scratched his arm again until he felt the skin break underneath his fingernails. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had a good thing going. Ryan just had to keep both himself and Matt in line so neither of them could fuck it up. And being forced to be that person was harder than anyone could imagine. 
> 
> It was a lot to cope with. Ryan just lost his temper sometimes.

Maybe things had gotten out of hand. Just a little. At some point, one way or another, Ryan had taken it too far. Every time he got a real eyeful of Matt, it just made it that much more obvious. 

Matt was crammed into the corner of the couch, twisting his hair around his finger as he scanned through something on his phone. Ever since his hair had started getting longer, he’d started playing with it more, especially after bleaching it. _Girls just wanna have fun._

His cheek was shiny with a new cut, barely healed over and held together with a butterfly bandage. It was a thin, white eye staring Ryan down, unblinking, reminding him, _You did this. You cut this kid up. You cut him up and watched him bleed on your bathroom floor._

Ryan frowned and leaned forward, gently stroking his thumb over the bandage. Matt flinched and looked at him, eyes caught in the headlights. 

“Does it hurt?” Ryan asked, more curious than anything else. 

“Uh… not really.” Matt looked back down at his phone, shrugging. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I didn’t mean to. Really, I didn’t think it was gonna—”

“It’s okay. Like, it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean to, so, yeah.”

It wasn’t that Ryan really believed him, but it was what he needed to hear. Selfishly, he was prepared to accept that and act like it was okay, like, it was fine, but he knew it wasn’t. Not really. 

“No, like, I’m sorry. Seriously.” Ryan shuffled closer and pulled Matt into him, arms wrapped snugly around him. Matt came with him easily, like always, all eighty pounds of him. Matt smiled, a little dopey, cloudy with bliss, seemingly forgetting why he was so down in the first place. 

“Yeah. I told you, I know. S’okay.” Matt linked his arms around Ryan’s neck, looking bedazzled. It made Ryan’s heart twist a little, trying to wring the sad out of it. 

Ryan never really deserved the way that Matt looked at him. He always felt the compulsion to put a stop to it. _I’m not that fucking great. Nothing about me is that fucking great._ He wished he actually was special, that the way Matt saw him was real. He wished that that version of Ryan Magee really existed and he wasn’t just a figment of Matt’s overactive imagination. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Ryan murmured, lifting his hand to Matt’s butterfly bandage. He pressed down on it, feeling mindless, wanting to get a reaction. 

Matt’s eyelashes fluttered for a moment as he swallowed, his head twitching. “Do, um, do what?” 

“Look at me like that. Makes me feel like you want something from me.” That wasn’t exactly what Ryan meant, but that was how it came out. It was supposed to be something more like _I wish I was that, but I can’t be, and it makes me feel like I’ll never be that. You’re unrealistic. I’m never gonna be that person you wanna see in me._

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t. I just…” Matt trailed off, dropping his eyes. “I like when you, um. When you hold me.” 

Stuff like that activated a really bitter, mean, hateful, petty part of Ryan’s brain that he wished he could just carve out and throw down the garbage disposal. It was the part that made him dig into Matt’s insecurities for the hell of it. It was the whole B-word thing, the B-word-friend thing, the word that Ryan couldn’t use because it was just too weird. Because that wasn’t what they had, it wasn’t what they were, and it didn’t matter how much Matt wanted it because it wasn’t going to happen. Matt was kind of trying to force it down Ryan’s throat and Ryan couldn’t take it. For whatever reason, it made him kind of sick. 

So Ryan was a little meaner over that kind of shit than he should have been. It gave him a thrill of self-fellating misery to see Matt’s face fall whenever he withdrew from something like that. From something like “I like when you hold me”.

Ryan turned the tip of his thumb down and dug it into the cut _. See how much you like it when it starts to hurt. Do you like it now? You think any of this is supposed to feel good?_

“You like it now?” Ryan pushed it in and saw the bandage depress under his thumbnail. A bead of blood started to form at the edge of the cut as Matt whimpered, jerking away. 

“Why are you—come on, it’s gonna get infected,” Matt whined, his eyes glassy. “Ryan, stop.” 

Matt didn’t often tell him to stop anymore. It must’ve really hurt. Wondering if Matt would actually grow a spine for once, Ryan clutched his hand around Matt’s jaw and shoved his nail into the cut until Matt yelped and tried to scramble away. 

“Okay, fine, it hurts, it really fucking hurts, I’m sorry I lied,” Matt choked out, climbing out of Ryan’s lap and shoving his hand away. “It really hurts.” 

“I knew you were lying, Matt, fuck, how good do you think you are at this?” Ryan snorted, derisive and sharp. He knew he was reaching the point where things were getting unnecessary; Matt was clearly hurting, he’d started regretting the lovey-dovey shit, but it was so, so hard to stop. It was like picking at a scab: so bad for your body, so gross, but it felt so satisfying. 

“What did I do?” Matt pressed his fingers against his cut, smoothing the bandage back into place. He sounded so timid and so tired at the same time. “Can we just go back to that? Like, what we were doing before? I’m sorry if I fucked something up. I really am. I just—I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” Ryan said, preemptively annoyed about the argument he knew Matt was going to make. “You know I hate the whole, like, the intimacy thing.”

“We’ve always done the intimacy thing! Even before all of this, we did the intimacy thing!”

“You know what the fuck I mean,” Ryan snapped. “You know the way you mean it is different. You want me to mean it that way.”

“Fine. Whatever. Forget it,” Matt muttered, looking at the blood on his fingertips. “I don’t know why—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together and fishing his phone out from between the couch cushions. 

“No, what?” Ryan plucked Matt’s phone out of his hand and pushed it back down where it had fallen before. “What were you saying?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Matt’s voice sounded oddly shaky. “I don’t. I didn’t say anything. Can you give me my phone?”

“Get it,” Ryan said. “It’s right there. I don’t have it.”

Matt’s eyes flickered up at Ryan, then down at where his phone lay tucked into the couch. He licked his lips and carefully reached down to touch it. Ryan slapped the back of his palm, quick and light, making Matt leap back like he’d been stung. 

“Please?” Matt closed his fingers over his punished hand, looking up at Ryan through his eyelashes. It was the most pathetic _“Please”_ that Ryan had ever heard in his life, pathetic to the point that Ryan felt some mingled revulsion and pity. 

“Just for that, no,” Ryan said decidedly, taking Matt’s phone and slipping it into his own hoodie pocket. “You’ll get it back once you’ve earned it back.”

Matt didn’t look just tired, but exhausted. “How?”

“However you think you can earn it back.” 

It seemed to take Matt all of two seconds to figure out what to do. Of course he went for the easiest solution. It wasn’t exactly what Ryan had been asking for, or had even been implying, but it was hilarious that Matt’s immediate solution was to drop to his knees like it was his primary function. 

“Do you even _do_ anything else?” Ryan asked as Matt pulled at his shorts, cheeks flushed and eyes still wet behind his glasses. “Can’t believe how many times you’ve openly lied about not liking this shit.” 

Matt didn’t say anything. He just licked his palm and closed his hand around Ryan’s dick, looking up at him with parted lips, his face all baby-blue and dripping red. 

“You’re such a fucking slut. You’re a fucking girl, Matt.” Ryan gripped a handful of Matt’s hair, clenching dry, wispy blond in between his fingers. “Better take it like one.” 

Matt shut his eyes and inclined his head, holding the base of Ryan’s cock and taking him in. Ryan felt not just the bitter part, but every other part of his brain close itself off and fog up as his hand moved down to the back of Matt’s head, urging him down. 

Things had definitely gotten out of hand. From the very first very-drunken kiss on the wrong side of a closed bedroom door, things had gotten much too much out of hand. It was true. They’d gotten so much out of hand that Ryan couldn’t imagine they would ever get back to normal anymore. 

But something about it was working. As he felt Matt gag around him, held down with the gentle persuasion of Ryan’s guiding hand, Ryan felt a sense of quiet, almost dignified power that he couldn’t imagine himself wanting to relinquish. Inflicting this shit was all he was good for and the only thing Matt was good for was taking it. 

They had a good thing going. Ryan just had to keep both himself and Matt in line so neither of them could fuck it up. And being forced to be that person was harder than anyone could imagine. 

It was a lot to cope with. Ryan just lost his temper sometimes. 


End file.
